This is a selection taken from the stories I wrote between 2003 and 2011. Nearly all of them have been previously published, many in publications no longer extant. Where they are still available in existing books or magazines, sufficient time has elapsed to permit their re-publication without fear of ethical impropriety or breach of contractual terms. Check the Blog Archive at the bottom of the page for individual titles.

Please be aware that each story was written by the person I was at the time. In a sense, therefore, each one was written by somebody different. None of them was written by the person I am now.

Anybody wanting to view my novel Odyssey can do so here. I’ve set the price very low because I’m more interested in the story being read than in making money out of it. It’s about a goddess and her rabbit companion taking a mortal man on a journey to teach him a few lessons about the nature of reality and higher consciousness, and it's probably more entertaining than I make it sound. I never was any good at selling myself. The Gift Horse, a story of reincarnation and karmic balancing, is also now available at the same place.

July 08, 2011

A Fairytale of Philadelphia.

Nothing overtly supernatural here, just a small
slice of life with a large helping of fantasy thrown in. Like many of my
stories, though, it does have some basis in fact; although I must say that any
similarity to real persons or circumstances is partly coincidental. Joseph and Lisa are based on real people, and Louise is real, too, though in a slightly different way.

Approximate reading time: 20 minutes.

------------------------------------------------

Joseph
Bentley had been traipsing the streets of the downtown area for at least two
hours. The brace of bags he was carrying weren’t particularly heavy, but two
hours of alternating them between his shoulders – and sometimes carrying the
smaller one in his hand so as to be able to sling the big one over his back – conveyed
the notion that lead weights had somehow been added bit by bit as he walked. It
had rained the whole time, too, and even though the air was hot and the water
that had crept through several gaps in his inadequate attire not unduly
uncomfortable, he couldn’t avoid the unpleasant sensation of being wet where a
person isn’t supposed to be wet. This was just the latest reason to feel
dejected.

He’d
been walking ever since he’d had a meal of sorts, more out of a sense of duty
to routine than any genuine need of sustenance, in some fast food outlet on...
on... 22nd Street, wasn’t it? He was trying to get some idea of his
bearings in a strange American city, and he found American addresses confusing.
Too many numbers. Where he came from, they didn’t have addresses like 1420 17th Street. He was more used to 14 Sackville Terrace. Much
more human; much more humane. He didn’t feel particularly human at that moment,
and all sense of humanity – subjective or objective – had temporarily gone the
way of all wet flesh.

This
had to stop; he needed a drink.

He
tried to place himself, although he had no idea why it should concern him. What
did it matter where he was? He knew which city he was in, wouldn’t that do? He
decided to try and work it out anyway. He decided it was a control thing.

Walnut
Street? Chestnut Street. Nutcase Street? All nuts; that was good enough. He
spotted a bar with a name that appealed to him. Rick’s Bar proclaimed the blue neon sign. Excellent, he thought; he
knew all about Rick’s Bar. And so he went in, made for the nearest bar stool,
dropped his sopping bags onto the floor, and sprawled himself across the counter
for a few seconds.

‘Can
I get’ya a drink, buddy?’

‘Scotch.
As big as it comes. Neat.’

‘Neat?
You mean straight up.’

‘Do
I? I’ve no idea. I mean I don’t want any ice in it.’

‘Gotcha.’

Two
minutes later he was observing the four other people whose paths he was briefly
crossing on the road of life. ‘Life?’ he thought to himself. ‘Did I just think life? No, too much – way too much.’

Two
of them were a young couple sitting at a table. Their body language suggested a
degree of intimate acquaintance, and that wouldn’t do. Bad memories. In the
corner sat a man in a business suit, poring over a wad of papers. A business
report, maybe, or a set of accounts. ‘Greyville,’ thought Joseph. The fourth
was the only one worthy of attention. An attractive young woman, maybe in her
late twenties, sat on another bar stool around the corner from his. She had
long dark hair, and was wearing what looked like a dark raincoat zipped up to
the chin. He thought it odd, since it was so warm, and that intrigued him. What
intrigued him more was that she looked just as miserable as he felt. A sense of
shared misery plucked at him briefly. ‘Pretty as peaches,’ he thought,
remembering a phrase he had heard an American use once. And then he turned away
to examine the décor.

The
choice of name for the establishment was obvious enough, since there was a TV
set in the corner of the room showing the film Casablanca, and the walls were liberally hung with references
to it. There were portraits of Bogart, Bergman, Veidt, Rains – even one of the
redoubtable Sydney Greenstreet. There were stills galore, and several frames
containing some of the more memorable lines. The hill o’ beans speech, If that
plane leaves and you’re not on it..., You played it for her, you can play it
for me, etc, etc. The one that brought a wry smile to his lips was We’ll always have Paris. ‘What an idiot you were, Rick,’ he muttered.

‘I
agree.’ He turned to see the dark haired woman in the raincoat standing next to
him, drink in hand. ‘May I sit with you?’

‘As
long as you’re not trying to sell me something.’

‘Like
what?’

Joseph’s
look must have conveyed his obvious suspicion, for it seemed the woman almost
stomped her foot.

‘Heavens!
What can you be thinking? That’s terrible.’

Joseph
was sure he detected a twinkle in her eye, but he played safe.

‘Yes,
of course. I’m sorry; I meant no offence. It’s just that I’m not used to being
approached by attractive women in bars.’

A
short period of silence followed, during which awkward moments Joseph looked at
the woman and then looked away, and the woman stared resolutely at Joseph. He’d
noticed that about American women. Up front, combative, no messing. She took
the stool next to his.

‘You’re
English, aren’t you?’

‘I
am.’

‘What’s
your name?’

‘Joe,
although for some unaccountable reason one or two people prefer to call me
Joseph. I answer to both.’

‘Joseph’s
a nice name.’

‘Do
you think so? Can’t say I was ever that keen on it myself.’

‘It’s
from the Bible, isn’t it?’

‘I
believe it does have Levantine origins.’

‘What?’

‘Yes,
it’s from the Bible.’

‘What
are you doing in our beautiful, wet city? From your luggage, I’d say you just
came from the airport.’

‘Not just, exactly: about five hours ago. I came to meet somebody.’

‘And
did you?’

‘Did
I what?’

‘Meet
this somebody?’

‘Briefly.’

‘Why
briefly?’

‘She
wasn’t expecting me. It didn’t go quite as planned.’

‘How
so?’

‘Oh,
long story. Aren’t they all?’

‘We
have time if you want to talk about it. What’s her name?’

‘Lisa.’

‘That’s
a nice name, too.’

‘Think
so?’

‘Yeah,
sure I do. So what went wrong?’

Joseph
shuffled on his seat, insofar as it’s possible to shuffle on a bar stool.

‘It
means “If you won’t come to me, I’ll come to you.” I read it in a book and it
seemed appropriate to the circumstances.’

‘Circumstances?’

‘We
– this woman and I – met over the internet, you see, first through following
each other’s blogs, then by e-mail (I remember the thrill I felt when she wrote
in a blog comment “e-mail me?” Ha!) And then we got to talking on Skype.’

‘Was
she beautiful?’

‘Facially,
you mean? I didn’t know at first; in the pictures she posted, she always kept
herself well hidden behind big glasses and under woolly hats and the like. All
I knew at the time was that there was something fascinating about her –
something vibrant, searching, intelligent, creative, electric, beguiling...’

‘Wow!’

‘But
then, when I did eventually get to see her face, yes, she was beautiful too.’

‘And
you fell in love with her.’

‘Mm...
not so sure about that. Not sure I know what it means. Let’s just say I was
captivated. I started to get this curious ache if we went a whole day without
some form of contact. A sort of longing, a fearful sort of longing – fear of
losing, I suppose, or rejection. Same thing. Pretty silly, don’t you think? We
fell out a couple of times, but it didn’t last. Back she came, and down I fell
again.’

Joseph
had cleared his first scotch during the course of the conversation, and ordered
another. He offered to buy the woman a drink.

‘No,
thanks. I’m fine. So what happened?’

‘There
was a plan that she would come to visit me in England, but it fell through because of other commitments.
So then I was reading a book one day and came across that Latin quotation. I
decided that if she couldn’t come to me, I would go to her. And I thought it
would be a splendid surprise if I arrived unannounced. Big mistake.’

‘Why?’

‘Ah,
well, first there was the leg work to be done. We’d never exchanged home
addresses, you see. All I knew was that she was a waitress in a coffee bar,
somewhere in the downtown area, so I had to look for her.’

‘Hey,
that’s romantic.’

‘Is
it? Suppose it is, in a way. Anyway, I found her at about the tenth. There she
was, serving a customer. She walked back across the floor and passed close to
me. She glanced briefly at me at first, and then stopped and did the best
double take I’ve ever seen. She looked more than shocked, she looked appalled.
“Hello, Lisa,” I said. “What the..?” was all I got in return. But it was the
look on her face that sent a chill down my spine. “Can we talk?” I said. “No,
I’m busy.” “What about when you finish?” “I’ll be busy then, too.” And with
that she walked away and disappeared into the back. Well, it was pretty
obvious, wasn’t it? I’d just made the biggest mistake of my life. I’d got it
all wrong. So I walked and walked, feeling like shit, and ended up here.’

‘Maybe
she was confused about her feelings.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Maybe
she just got a shock and didn’t know how to deal with it.’

‘Lots
of maybe’s, aren’t there? You didn’t see her face. Eyes say a lot.’

‘Yeah,
guess you’re right. So what’ll you do now?’

‘Go
home I suppose. What else is there to do?’

‘You
could hang out with me tomorrow. What you did was pretty damn extraordinary,
and we’re short on Romantics in America. You could tell me more about Lisa and I’ll tell
you my story. The weather forecast’s good.’

Joseph
looked into the woman’s eyes. They looked honest, decent – complicated perhaps,
but not inscrutable. He generally trusted his instinct when it came to eyes.

‘I
noticed you weren’t looking too happy, yourself.’

‘No.
Me and my boyfriend – so called – split up tonight. He said I wasn’t glamorous
enough. Said I was boring. Jerk!’

‘Not
glamorous enough?’

‘Right.
I guess it’s ‘cos I don’t spend a hundred dollars a week on makeup, and I’m
fussy about how much of my body I display to the great American public. From
the shoulder to the knee is private. Puts me a bit outside the groove. Hell,
seems I told you my story already. Mine’s shorter than yours. Still want to
hang out?’

‘Yes,
I think I do. Where should we meet?’

‘City
Hall, ten
o’clock? Do you know where
that is?’

‘Oh,
yes! I walked past it at least three times tonight.’

‘A
date then!’

‘Date?
Ha! Haven’t heard that word in years. OK, date it is. Would you have that drink
with me now?’

‘Louis
is it? Good name. Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.’

The
bartender, who had seen Casablanca so many times he knew the script backwards, rolled his eyes.

* * *

The
weather forecast was accurate. As Joseph approached the extravagant bulk of
City Hall the only dampness on his skin came from the first hints of light
perspiration, encouraged by the hazy heat and a sun that seemed unnaturally
powerful for 9.45 in the morning. It was never this hot, this early, in England. He wondered whether Louise would still be wearing
a coat. He wondered whether Louise would be there at all.

The
sheer size of the place aroused some consternation; he hadn’t noticed it in the
mental and physical gloom of the previous evening. It occurred to him that a
hundred people could arrange to meet here and still miss each other. Best
thing, he thought, would be to walk the circuit of the place and keep walking
it until he either encountered Louise or gave up the attempt. It wouldn’t be
the first time he’d been stood up, and the previous night’s events had already
assumed the impression of a dream.

The
position of the sun told him he was heading west, and if he wasn’t mistaken the
eastern end of the building looked to be one of the short sides. This was going
to eat up some shoe leather. He crossed the busy road and turned left. He liked
clockwise. There was nobody hanging around on that side of the building, only a
bustle of people going about their business hurriedly and anonymously, and so
he began the circuit.

He
was in a hurry, too; he was anxious to see what Louise looked like in the hot
light of day, and even more anxious to know whether she still wanted to spend
time with him. As he turned the corner he spotted a single, still figure
standing close to the building. He looked questioningly at it, and stopped. It
wasn’t Louise; it was Lisa.

She
caught sight of him almost immediately, and for several long seconds – or maybe
even minutes – they both stood still and silent, regarding one another with an
intensity that seemed to halt the morning bustle of the downtown area. Joseph
moved first, but his walk was slowed by the pressure of incredulity. As he came
to within touching distance, the ability to speak was dormant.

‘Hi,’
said Lisa quietly. The spell was broken, if only partially.

‘What
are you doing here, Lisa? I’m supposed to be meeting somebody.’

‘I
know,’ she returned with a light frown. ‘Me. I got your message.’

‘Message?’

‘Yeah.
The one you sent with the woman who came to my house last night.’

‘Woman?
What woman?’

‘The
woman you sent with a message to say you’d be at City Hall at ten o’clock, and would I meet you here. Don’t pretend you
didn’t, Joseph. I hate lies.’

‘I
swear it. I never sent any woman with a message. What did she look like?’

‘About
thirty, pretty, long dark hair, wearing an old fashioned black raincoat. Is
this some sort of game, Joseph? I hate games, too.’

Joseph
was confused. He stared at Lisa, and Lisa stared back. She seemed to be
searching his eyes for something. Integrity, perhaps. Her own eyes seemed
beautiful to him, and softer than the day before - more accepting. But that
wasn’t the point. He jerked his mind back to the memory of the previous night
and the meeting with Louise in Rick’s Bar.’ He’d had no more scotch than he was
used to drinking, and he’d been a long way short of drunk.

‘I
did meet a woman just as you describe, last night,’ he said. ‘I told her about you;
she seemed interested. But I never sent her with a message. How could I? I
don’t know where you live.’

‘Guess
she must have looked me up in the phone book.’

‘I
didn’t tell her your surname, either.’

Silence
fell again and both sets of eyes were locked firmly on each other. Joseph was
the sort who always needed to make sense of his senses, but at that moment he
felt merely bewildered. There was thrill in abundance, and excitement, and
expectation, and anxiety. Maybe there was even fear. But something else was
swamping the lot, something that didn’t have a name yet, something he didn’t
recognise because he’d never made its acquaintance before. Lisa broke the
impasse.

‘You
look a little older than I expected, but no matter. You have nice eyes. I don’t
have to work today; we could spend it together.’

There
was another short, but heavily pregnant, period of silence until Lisa spoke
again.

‘Joseph,
can we talk?’

* * *

They
talked. They spent six hours together, during which time they talked, they
walked, they had coffee, they sat in the shade, they had lunch, and then they
walked some more.

It
would be true to say that Joseph did most of the talking; he was more the
garrulous type. But what he mostly did was observe. He’d found through years of
experience that the words people use can be deceptive. Even the most truthful
of people tend only to tell their own truth as it appears to them at that
moment. It takes more than talk to understand somebody, and so he placed
greater reliance on observing three things: dress, body language and eyes. And
he had no doubt that Lisa was observing him, too; her eyes told him that. They
were searching, testing, weighing up the possibilities and consequences. At four o’clock they parted without resolution, and Joseph headed
back to Rick’s Bar.

He
occupied the same bar stool and ordered the same drink. It was far too early by
his standards, but what the hell. He heard a shuffle beside him and turned to
see Louise taking the seat next to his. She was wearing the same black
raincoat, zipped up to the neck. He regarded her steadily, feeling only a sense of resigned
incredulity.

'Aren't you hot in that coat?' he asked.

'U-huh. So what? There are more important things than being hot, aren't there Joseph?'

Joseph said nothing. Louise smiled for several seconds, and then said

‘Well, did
I do good?’

Joseph asked the obvious question. The case of the mysterious visit was uppermost in his mind.

‘How
did you know where Lisa lived?’

‘I
know everything you need me to know.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I
can do magic?’

‘Magic.’

‘Yup.
How did it go with Lisa?’

‘Not
well.’

‘She
had one characteristic you could never live with, didn’t she? Something to do
with her attitude on a subject that’s very important to you.’

‘And
how do you know that? Oh, sorry; I forgot. You know everything I need to you to
know.’

‘Correct.’

Joseph
shook his head and searched the enigmatic smile that had never left Louise’s
lips and eyes.

‘I
understand you, Joseph,’ she said. ‘I’m the only one who does. Shall I explain
it to you?’

‘Will
it help?’

‘It
might. Look, Joseph, you’re a smart guy. In fact, you’ve got a lot of things
going for you. You've got plenty of strengths, but you’ve got one big weakness. Any woman you get close to – the
way you got close to Lisa – has tremendous power over you. She can reduce you
to a pile of jibbering jello with a single action, opinion, or even expression
of intent. And do you know why? Because such a woman holds your masculinity in her hands,
and she can snuff it out as easy as crushing a butterfly. Lisa would do that to you; not
maliciously, of course, or even deliberately, but she wouldn’t be able to help
it. She wouldn’t know what she was doing, Joseph. She wouldn’t hold back
because she wouldn’t understand the nature of the power she has; she wouldn’t
see the butterfly she was crushing. Let me ask you something. Are you a control freak?'

'No.'

'And the idea of owning a person is a million miles from who you are, right?'

'Of course.'

'Those two things are precisely what Lisa wouldn't understand. She’d see your vulnerability as nothing
more than a man’s attempt to own and control her, and that’s one characteristic she could never live with. She wouldn't understand that it's your demon you need to control, not her. And so she would feed the demon, and when she’d brought you to your knees and
you’d lost all your strength, will, self-belief, ability to function, and even your sense of identity
– which is what emasculation does to a man – you’d do the only thing you know how. You’re at your meanest when you’re down, aren’t you Joseph? You would
strike back by stating your own truths more extensively. You would tell her
things about herself – things you truly believed, rightly or wrongly, but had kept
reined in – that would hurt her badly. I understand Lisa, too. I know how sensitive she is, and I know you’d
both suffer more than you could take. Understand
this, my friend. There’s no road you and Lisa could walk together and find any sort of happiness, not now
you’ve gotten this close to her. It would be a path of mutual destruction. You should
never have gotten this close, you know. You should have maintained some distance,
detachment, a measure of indifference.’

‘I
know. I did try.’

‘Not
hard enough, though. Try harder next time.’

Joseph
was tired. He looked dejectedly at the bar counter while Louise’s eyes never left his
face, nor the smile her lips. Eventually, he asked a question.

‘And
how will Lisa come out of this? Will she be OK?’

‘Of
course. Her needs aren’t quite as particular as yours, though they’re
particular enough in their own way. Lisa's main problem is that she fears becoming somebody else's creation, and that leads her into an obsessively independent mindset that doesn't really encourage things like giving, trusting, or paying too much heed to the needs of others. She'll learn in her own time, and by then you'll be far and away. For now, she’s young, and she isn’t short on
physical attributes, is she? She’ll get all the approbation she cares to take.
Men are never slow to see a well formed body as a sex object; you should know
that. That’s the only thing most men are capable of seeing in a well formed
body. It’s why we have strip joints. She’ll have men making love to her, one way or
another, at every turn.’

Joseph
felt the knot tighten in his stomach, and an enervating sickness spread to every corner of his frame. It showed.

‘Hurts,
doesn’t it?’ said Louise. ‘That’s why you have to go home, Joseph. Now. Alone.
Go home and don't come back. If that plane leaves and you’re not on it...’

He
placed his elbows on the bar counter, sank his head into the crook of his arms,
and gripped the back of his skull tightly. Eventually he looked up to see the
bartender smirking at him. Joseph looked back and asked the first question that
came into his head.

‘Is
there a woman sitting on the stool next to me?’

‘Er,
nope.’

‘Have
I been talking to myself?’

‘Yup.’

‘You
must think I’m mad.’

‘Mad?
You mean crazy?’

‘Right.’

‘Ha!
We get crazier crazies than you in here every day of the week, buddy.’

Joseph
left the drink and headed back to the modest hotel where he’d spent the
previous night. He packed his things, paid the bill and took a cab to the
airport. The rain was falling steadily again. He was lucky in only having to
wait five hours for the next flight back to Manchester where he’d left his car. He spent most of the
journey sleeping the sleep of the discontented.

The woman in the seat behind him slept, too. She had folded her long black raincoat to use as a pillow.

This story is much more insightful than I originally wanted to acknowledge. If I take the perspective that Lisa was built after my own character, you got some things wrong, though, but some important things very right. But I acknowledge that you are allowed to take liberties with your creative works!

I think sometimes that you're the one person in the whole world who knew/knows? my neuroses best.

It was a little parable which told my truth as I saw it at the time. In the matter of people I would never claim that my truth is definitive, nor that it's ever possible to know another person completely.

In the matter of you, however, you must know by now that you were/are? uniquely compelling. (I assume you read my Baby Blue post.) I sometimes think that connections can be made outside of conventional reality and override the frailty of human choice.

About Me

I've never had money because I've never been driven by money. I received little formal education beyond the age of sixteen, which isn't such a bad thing since you get a different angle on life that way. Learning what you want and need to learn often reveals things that the system's road keeps hidden.

JJ Beazley asserts his ownership of copyright in all works of fiction and non-fiction contained herein unless otherwise stated. Feel free to quote anything if you want to, but please don't nick a story and claim it for your own. That would compromise my chances of getting an anthology published and I'd be a bit miffed.